Once Upon a Wallflower (4 page)

Suddenly, a noise behind him made him turn and look up to the top of the cliff. Every time he had the dream, he tried to identify the sound that caught his attention. A loose pebble skittering down the cliff face, perhaps? A crab clicking its way across a rock? Or a more distant sound, such as the report of a hunting rifle echoing across the moors? Every time he had the dream, he tried to identify that sound, as though it might hold the key to changing the course of the dream, but he could never quite make it out.

His attention now directed landward, he caught a glimpse of fluttering white, and he raised his head to see his mother standing at the top of the cliff, black curls a wild tangle about her head, the morning sunlight behind her surrounding her with a haze of light.

She looked like an angel.

Even from the rocks below her, Nicholas saw that her eyes were closed, the expression on her face rapt, prayerful. She raised her hands, in supplication or offering, and for a moment, her face was obscured by shadows. In that moment, he knew, with the certainty that comes only in dreams, exactly what his mother felt. He experienced her loneliness as acutely as if it were his own, felt the betrayal of time and the gnawing ache of jealousy.

And then she was looking right at him. Her eyes were infinitely sad, but a joyous smile spread across her face.

It made no sense, but dreams seldom did.

“Nicky!” She called down to him, and some trick of the wind brought her words to him clearly, as though she were standing right beside him. And the wind brought another sound, little more than a dream within the dream, his father’s voice, edged with panic, calling his mother’s name.

She spread her arms to either side and arched her back in sheer abandon. The sound of her laughter surrounded Nicholas.

“Nicky, darling, look at me. Mother can fly!”

But, of course, she could not.

He took a startled step toward the cliff, as though he might be able to do something, stop her descent, halt time and undo her mistake. But, instead of helping his mother, he slipped on the rock, slick with sea spray, and fell himself, his left ankle catching in a crevice and the leg wrenching brutally, bone snapping and shattering.

Nicholas awoke, his mother’s laughter—just beginning to turn to a startled scream—still ringing in his ears, blending with his own cry of pain in a macabre harmony.

He knew from experience that sleep would elude him for the rest of the night, so he got out of bed, swearing softly as his left leg buckled briefly, and he lit a lamp.

In the yawning pre-dawn silence, his mother’s words and laughter echoed over and over in his mind. Remarkable what jealousy can drive a person to do. Remarkable and horrible.

He wrapped himself in his dressing gown and made his way to his father’s study, where he knew the best port was kept.

As he opened the study door, a voice from the shadows startled him. “You’re awake,” his father commented.

“As are you,” Nicholas replied. He poured himself a glass of port and joined his father in the pair of leather chairs set before the low-burning fire.

“This whole endeavor has been a disaster. I should have called George Fitzhenry to account that first night in the Farley ballroom. As it is, we have allowed the charade of this engagement to last too long.”

True, Mira had not yet cried off as he had expected, as he had hoped. Of course, nothing about Miss Mirabelle Fitzhenry was as he had expected. Unlike the pale, vapid girls who were the darlings of the
ton
, Mira Fitzhenry intrigued him, unsettled him. At the Farley ball, her dress had not flattered her, and her wildly, shamelessly red hair looked as though she had been attacked by a bat. Yet the juxtaposition of her soft, feminine curves with her intense scarlet locks bespoke a raw, vibrant sensuality.

Nicholas smiled.

Before the Farley ball, Blackwell had said with a satisfied smile that Miss Mirabelle Fitzhenry was rumored to be a lovely young thing, the perfect Society miss, but Mirabelle Fitzhenry,
his
Mirabelle Fitzhenry, was neither cloying nor compliant.

No, his Mirabelle Fitzhenry was a clever girl. Clever and passionate. Such a range of emotions swept over her expressive face when she spoke, and Nicholas vividly recalled the way she had melted beneath his touch as they danced, her body soft and warm and yielding as she utterly gave herself up to the moment.

As for being a biddable wife, Nicholas could not imagine Mira in that role. Beneath her tongue-tangling self-consciousness and her burning blushes, Nicholas sensed a strong spirit. She did not kowtow to Blackwell, did not follow meekly on the heels of Kitty and George Fitzhenry, did not shy away from Nicholas himself. No, she might be unsure of herself, but that did not mean she would simply do as she was told.

“Tomorrow,” his father said, “you shall return to Blackwell, and I shall break the news that the engagement is over. If Fitzhenry wants his debt forgiven, he must offer up what was promised: his daughter.”

Rationally, Nicholas knew his father’s plan would best serve Mira. His life was one of isolation and some degree of danger. The young women in his environs tended to die with startling regularity.

Yet every time he closed his eyes, he saw her smile. It shone with a bright purity, an unbearable honesty that eclipsed the stain on his own soul. It was irresistible.

Nicholas took a deep pull of the port, allowing the warmth of the liquor to seep through his aching muscles.

“No,” he said aloud. “You know I have no wish to marry, but if I must wed a Mirabelle Fitzhenry, I prefer the one I have. And I would not tarnish her name with the scandal of a broken engagement.”

“Are you certain?” his father asked.

“I am certain of little,” Nicholas said, offering his father a rare moment of honesty. “But for the moment this is how I should prefer to proceed.”

He downed the last of his port, bid his father a good night, and returned to his bedchamber.

With the echo of Mira’s compassionate touch burning in his memory, Nicholas made his way to the writing desk tucked in the corner of his room. From a narrow drawer he withdrew a small red box, one that had sat collecting dust for years. A gift awaiting a recipient. At that moment, Nicholas decided that the promise of Mira’s touch was worth a bit of risk.

Perhaps she would come to her senses and flee his presence. Or perhaps he would change his mind and end the engagement eventually, remove her from his life, but not just yet. For now, he would simply have to protect Miss Fitzhenry from the dangers of the world, the greatest danger being her own inquisitive self.

…

Mira sat on the faded blue velvet settee in the family’s drawing room, attempting—and failing—to embroider a string of flowers along the hem of one of her gowns in an effort to hide the worn line where it had been let down earlier in the spring. The afternoon sun slid like honey through the windows, its warmth making it all the harder to focus on the tedious task at hand.

In truth, she was preoccupied by Aunt Kitty’s announcement at the breakfast table that the whole family had been invited to a Midsummer house party at Blackwell Hall. Olivia Linworth had died at a Midsummer house party at Blackwell Hall. Mira wondered how she would fare.

When the door knocker sounded, she nearly jumped out of her skin.

Grateful for any reprieve from the chore of needlework, Mira dashed down the stairs, skidded across the small stretch of marble in the entryway, and flung open the door.

On the doorstep she found a liveried servant, a pale and haughty-looking young man wearing black and silver silks, his neatly rolled and powdered hair nearly blinding in the afternoon sun.

For an instant he appeared taken aback by the unconventional greeting, but he quickly regained his composure and cleared his throat. “Ahem. I have a package for a Miss Mirabelle Fitzhenry.”

Ah, Mira thought, another gift for Bella from another admiring suitor. She mustered up a thin smile for the man and, with a tight “Thank you,” accepted the small red box and the folded missive that accompanied it. Without further ado, the manservant turned on his heel and hurried the few short steps to the coach that stood waiting for him.

The housekeeper was in the habit of placing invitations and notes on a silver tray on the console table in the entryway until their recipients were at home to receive them. This afternoon, the tray overflowed with correspondence for Bella and Kitty, who were out shopping for clothing for the Blackwell house party. As soon as word had spread that a Fitzhenry girl was to marry the Blackwell heir, invitations had started pouring in.

The Ellerby family was infamous. Blackwell was a brazen rake, an out-and-out bounder, whose debauchery had barely abated as he aged. His father, Nicholas’s grandfather, had been a hard man, some would say he was downright evil, who had brutally betrayed any number of friends in his quest for political power. Somewhere along the line, there had been rumors that one of Nicholas’s uncles had gone mad and had refused to wear clothing—once coming down to a dinner party dressed only in red-heeled shoes and a neatly tied cravat—so that the family had been forced to lock him away at some remote property. The whole family was generally considered wild and unpredictable, and Nicholas had only aggravated the family reputation with his unconventional style, his unsociable personality, and the rampant rumors of murder.

So it was little wonder that people should be intrigued by the family brave enough—or greedy enough—to sacrifice one of their young on the altar of matrimony for the sake of the Ellerby fortune. Especially after what had happened the last time, to poor Olivia Linworth.

Aunt Kitty, of course, ascribed their newfound popularity to Bella’s beauty and charm.

Whatever the reason, the Fitzhenrys were now all the crack.

Mira stopped by the entry table, meaning to balance the red package on the toppling pile of invitations. As she did so, she happened to glance at the note tucked beneath the white satin ribbon.

Odd. The note was addressed to “Mira.” Not Miss Fitzhenry, or Bella, or even Mirabelle. No, it was addressed to Mira. Could it truly be for her?

Overcome with curiosity, she popped the seal on the note with her fingernail and, after a quick glance around to be sure she was alone, unfolded the paper. The missive was brief, written in a bold and elaborate script.

Mira,

I thought you might appreciate this.

Regards,

Nicholas

The package truly was for her. From Nicholas. A curious stirring of excitement made her feel light and fluttery, yet warm at the same time.

As she reached for the red box, her hand trembled ever so slightly in anticipation, but the movement was just enough to send the package and notes sliding to the floor.

Mira did not mean to read any of the notes as she bent to gather them, but the seal on one had already been broken, and the fall to the floor had caused the paper to unfold, revealing the script inside. Picking it up, she could not help but notice the words “Mira” and “wedding” and “Blackwell.”

A frisson of trepidation shivered down her spine. Since the note clearly pertained to her, she could not resist reading it.

Addressed to Uncle George, the page was covered with a frenetic scrawl, the letters and lines drawn close together so as to fit more on a single page.

Fitzhenry,

It would seem that, despite your best efforts to muck up this affair, we have a wedding to plan. It is important we strike while the iron is hot. Indeed, if it would not fuel further gossip, I would procure a special license and have done with this today.

If we begin calling the banns this very Sunday, we should receive the certification in time to hold the wedding shortly after your arrival at Blackwell.

In the meantime, let us take advantage of the forced delay to do something with that dowdy young woman. I have taken the liberty of starting an account for her with a dress maker I favor, a Mme. Dupree. Madame has agreed to work around the clock to have ready a small wardrobe, including wedding clothes, before you and your clan depart for Blackwell next week.

Blackwell

Mira’s breath left her in a rush. The wedding. Until that moment, the engagement had seemed like an end unto itself, and the wedding it portended nothing more than a vague notion. She was so caught up in her infatuation with Nicholas, his sly wit and his obvious pain, she had not truly thought about pledging herself to him for life. Now, with sudden clarity, she envisioned herself standing at Nicholas’s side, repeating vows that would bind them together forever. She felt faint.

Could she truly marry him? Could she bear to live beneath the cloud of suspicion that hung over him? Bring children into such an uncertain life? And what if Nicholas truly was a murderer? Marrying him might be her doom.

Carefully, she refolded the missive and tucked it back in the pile of notes. Clutching the box, her gift from Nicholas, tightly in her hand, she made her way to the staircase and sank onto the third stair from the bottom. She raised the package to inspect it from every angle, committing the details of the wrapping to memory. Very gently, she slipped the white ribbon down one side of the package and eased it over a corner so that the whole length, still tied in a neat bow, fell away. She lifted the lid from the box, and found a small blue velvet bag inside. When she upended the bag, a blue lump fell into her hand followed by the slither of a gold chain.

She looked closely at the gift. Not a lump, but an enameled sphere. A pendant, about the size of a grape, yet perfectly round and dotted with tiny sapphires and diamonds. There was a tiny clasp on one side and a delicate hinge on the other. Carefully, she squeezed the clasp, and the pendant opened to reveal an ivory jonquil, limned in gold leaf.

A rush of warmth swept through her body. A smile bloomed on her face. “Magic,” she whispered.

She quickly slipped the chain over her head and tucked the pendant in the neck of her gown so the cool weight of it rested between her breasts.